The Sphinx's Riddle
by Zise
Summary: Over the course of my life here, I've learnt that nothing is like it seems. And sometimes, death is inevitable. SI/OC.
1. From The Cradle Comes Life

When I woke up to find myself surrounded by a blurry sea of faces , it didn't come as much of a surprise. People generally tended to close in on people when they fell unconscious, right? It wasn't an uncommon sight. I almost felt glad people were watching over me, ready to help me—strange thing was, I couldn't even remember fainting.

And… why did I feel so numb?

Dismissing it as a freak occurrence, I made to get up to get my glasses, which explained the blurry eyesight, when I found out I couldn't move. For a second, panic washed over me.

Calm down, it's nothing big. Just shock or something, maybe split-second paralysis, like when that kid knocked me out in P.E. and when I woke up, I couldn't move for a bit.

That settled my rapidly beating heart for a minute.

Well, I could just ask them to put my glasses on for me instead. People could be generous occasionally, couldn't they?

"C…"

I frowned, even though my brows felt as hard to move as rock. Almost unresponsive, even. Again, I attempted to move my mouth to form words, but I… I couldn't do it. The same feeling of deadness rushed through me, like I wasn't breathing.

Wasn't I?

A growing sense of terror filled every part of me. I sucked in hard, almost choking, unable to breathe.

Was I paralyzed for life? What happened to me? Why the hell couldn't I talk?

A mess of incomprehensible words were above me, the voice female and sounding terrified, and a strand of long, blonde hair (albeit blurry) invaded my limited range of sight.

My horror peaked, and to my utmost alarm, moisture welled up in my eyes, which wouldn't close. They stayed open, burning from the sharpness in the sterile air. Every part of me felt detached. If this was split-second paralysis, I was well on my way to crossing the ten-minute mark.

This was a nightmare.

When a gentle, soft hand brushed back my hair, I shuddered at the foreign touch. I was shaking, shivering and I felt so lost, so confused. I had so many questions that needed answers. I was defenseless and I _hated_ it.

A muted sob came from above me. Maybe someone sympathized with my plight—I was about to be raped or brutally tortured, wasn't I?

All my life, I had taken care of myself. I had never asked anyone for help, not even my parents. I tried to do everything by myself so I wouldn't trouble them, so that they could breathe a little easier knowing their child was independent and responsible. Even after leaving their house and moving to a small apartment, I never asked for guidance, even when money occasionally ran low and the electricity went out. I made do.

I always did.

But this? This was terrifying. I was at someone else's mercy. I had heard about immobilization drugs—the attacker could pour it in the victim's drink or even stab them with a needle full of it, and within the second, that poor person would be screwed. Literally.

I had just never thought it would be me in that position.

The hand cupped my cheek, as gentle as ever, sardonically reminding me of a hairdresser testing the hair's texture before slicing it all off. Maybe they would do the same, slice me up and sell my organs and limbs to the black market. God knows there's plenty of that shit happening in the world.

Another stroke on the hand, a whisper in my ear that I couldn't make sense of.

I felt tiny, so tiny.

Yeah, I could see some horrible molestation coming up first, though, blind and immobile as I was. After all, they'd take everything they could get. Assholes.

The moisture got unbearable to hold back, and weirdly enough, even though I had mentally steeled myself to just blank out and think of a plan, I felt like bawling.

The feeling suddenly increased, pushed at my boundaries and willpower, making it impossible to breathe—

A loud wail resounded in the ward, and Tsunade smiled widely, her eyes blurry with tears of relief.

Her daughter was not stillborn.

* * *

**NOTES: **Um, so. I thought I'd give this SI thing a go, since I'm out of ideas and I really felt this itch to write. I literally was scratching at my fingers, people. It was so weird. My mom even looked at me like I was cray. I'd totally love it if you shot some constructive criticism at me (lord knows I need it). Please review and tell me what you think?


	2. The Problem Without Solution

Slowly, over the course of the next few weeks, I began to realize that I wasn't being sold to some creep or, y'know, be sliced up into tiny, midget-sized cubes and be served with the main course for the next day's lunch.

Nope, not at all, if the lady with the beautiful honey-blonde hair had a say in it.

I had long resigned myself to the fact that I was either: a. _fully paralyzed and that these people were taking care of me because of my medical insurance,_ or that b. _I was just super sick and some guy from the street admitted me into some strange hospital that looked way too much like a house than a ward. _Oddly depressing, but I was too tired to care.

Even after napping for hours (I could tell because of the huge clock on the far left wall of my bed, which had _railing_s, for the love of god), I would grow cranky and tired, like I was on an indefinite period. It sucked, let me tell you. It sucked badly.

The lady, whose name I never got because of this strange language barrier, was always there. No joke. She didn't ever leave me, cooing over me and brushing back my hair tenderly. So tenderly that sometimes I felt like it was my mother caressing my hair instead—and then I'd slap myself mentally and remind myself that she was no-one. She was a stranger, paid to take care of me because of that stupid medical insurance my dad had forced on me.

Um, but I think it came into use, so… thanks, Daddy.

"Anata wa shizukana akachan, Chou-chan wanaidesu ka?"

The language she spoke in was eerily familiar, like I had heard it before, but I just couldn't place my finger on _what_ and _where._ The lady spoke in a calm tone, like she was talking more to herself than to me. One hand, slender and pale, rocked the bed slowly.

What I yet didn't understand was… why were they treating me so delicately, like china?

"Chou-chan… Watashi wa anata no chichioya o ketsujō…"

Wait.

Why did she keep saying that?

"Moshi anata dake ga Chou-chan, shitte imashita."

Was that my name? Chou-chan? It sounded foreign in my mind, and I'd probably trip over it if I tried to say it.

I couldn't remember anything else, though. Things were fading from my mind, terrifying me in the process as I tried to clutch onto the remnants, and now… I even forgot my own name. I couldn't remember where I was from, what I was doing before this happened, what my mother's name was or… or how my father looked like. Small, unneeded things remained at the forefront, like the medical insurance and the fact that my cat was probably starving by now without anyone to look after her, but I could feel it.

I could feel the erasure coming.

And I hated it. I hated that my life was being taken over by this… this disease.

The lady hummed softly, and my anger increased.

Who gave her the right to be so happy, so serene when my life was being flipped upside-down on someone's frying pan and burnt to a crisp? How could she be so joyful when I felt despair and confusion?

It wasn't fair. Why wasn't anything _ever_ fair for me?

The lady kept humming, as if she knew I was upset and was trying to cheer me up.

A month later, I began babbling. I didn't know why, but I just did. It was uncontrollable.

My mouth moved on its own, and slowly, a hiccup came out. The lady looked amused when a series of boo-boos sputtered out a second later, my mouth possessed by some demon with a wicked sense of humor. To be frank, it was beyond embarrassing to be spewing out gibberish in front of the nurse.

Well, that was what I thought she was, anyway. What else could she be?

I still couldn't move, but since I was at least making sounds, I hoped I would get better soon and, y'know, be able to leave and all. The lady changed me and cleaned me up, which I sort of felt humiliated about. Which self-respecting adult would enjoy that? There was nothing fun about having your crap cleaned for you.

My memories weren't getting better. Once, I thought I was progressing through a mutated form of amnesia. That might have been true, if not for the fact that I remembered the past two months as a statue perfectly. There was something strange happening and I wanted to know what and why.

I did get my answer, though.

And it wasn't pretty.

The Incident, as I dubbed it later, happened three months into the pretending-to-be-a-stone chapter of my life.

I was trying to move, again, and while I was mildly disturbed that my arms seemed smaller, I dismissed it because hey, I was probably malnourished from a lack of solid food, since the weird rubbery thing the lady shoved into my mouth only ever had vanilla milk in it.

The bed, with the tall railings that I reckoned were just there to keep me from rolling onto the floor, wasn't too hard to escape. I just stood up and rocked the bed so that the opposite side swung up high and the side I was on became flat enough for me to crawl onto the chair located right beside it. It had an adorable heart-shaped cushion on it, and I considered taking another nap, my eyelids already drooping.

_What is wrong with you? Get back to business! _

I sighed, and began my humiliating crawl across the room. I had to move, dammit, I was going insane being locked up like that. The railings were like the bars of a jail. It was horrible that I had to look at those after I woke up and know that I couldn't leave until I got better… and I didn't even know when that would happen!

_Okay, see the door there? Yeah, just push it. It's already a crack open._

I grinned toothily, scurrying like a turtle to the door.

Something glinted in my peripheral vision, and I turned out of sheer curiosity as all humans tend to do—

—and I dearly wished I hadn't.

A three-month old baby with a shock of platinum blonde hair and startling green eyes stared back at me, appearing as shocked as babies could be, chubby cheeks puffed up and mouth hanging.

I couldn't resist it this time.

I shrieked.

The lady, who I soon learned was my mother, had been amazingly patient with me as I adjusted to my new life, shock still ringing in my ears.

She didn't mind that I threw tantrums when I felt frustrated with my helplessness. She didn't even blink when I threw up on her after choking on the baby food she was trying to feed me with no success. She actually _laughed_ when I ruined her clothes by dropping my baby bottle on her and scalding her skin with the hot milk.

I felt like a heel.

So, in order to show my gratitude for her, I began to go down the route of the Perfect Child™. I no longer fought her when she fed me, knowing that if this was a nightmare, it ought to be over already. What use was there in making a mother's life difficult?

All it did was make me want to hit myself for being so fussy.

As time passed, I slowly forgot about the cat, the bills undoubtedly waiting for my dead corpse and the damned medical insurance that, in the end, was ultimately useless because, y'know, I wasn't even _there_ anymore.

I was a baby now.

Joy.

There were times when I wondered where my father in this world was. Was my mother a victim of assault or was she a single-mom? Did my father die, or did he leave her?

These were questions that I couldn't ask her yet. Not because I couldn't speak or because I was too young to even think of this stuff, but because I didn't know her. I felt familiarity with her, sure, but that was probably because I was stuck in her womb for nine months. I just didn't feel like I could talk to her without being shy.

I'd tackle that later, though.

First and foremost, I needed to _walk._

Once I fully understood that I was now a three-going-on-four-month old baby, I realized relearning everything would be a huge pain in the ass.

Whenever I tried to get up and clutch at the railing of my crib, my stubby little legs began quivering like crazy. Maybe they were just unused to handling weight, I guessed. It would get better with time, right?

The hopeful look I had on my small face was enough to send my mother into a fit of laughter. It only loudened when I fell on my butt the moment I released my hold on the railings.

I glared at her.

The months soon turned into a year, and at the tender age of one, I was introduced to someone who I greatly began idolizing from the moment I met him.

I could somewhat understand the language spoken here now, thanks to my mother's insistence on teaching me the names of the things in my nursery. I couldn't speak as of now, but I could understand basic sentences.

And boy, did he use basic.

"Hello, Chou-chan!" Jiraiya grinned at me, ruffling my hair in a signature gesture that I somehow _knew_ every old man used on young kids around here. "My name is Jiraiya!"

Uh, yeah, I know. My mother cursed at him enough through the window for me to recognize him by his voice now. What he did below our window, I don't think I'll ever know.

"Bah-choo," I babbled at him seriously, patting my wavy hair for added emphasis. _You do not mess up my hair. _"Mmh?"

Jiraiya looked stumped for a moment, but then he shrugged off my glare as a product of me being cranky from a lack of _Jiraiyaness_ in my life. And he said so.

"You need more humor in your life, Chou-chan! Being with Tsunade-hime has turned you into a priss," he nodded solemnly. "You see, darling, what you ought to be interested in is—"

"What stupid tricks are you teaching my daughter, idiot?" my mother's sharp voice rang from the doorway.

She leaned against the doorframe, her eyes narrowed in annoyance and her hair perfectly silky in their twin pigtails. My mother always had this easy-going charm about her. She was flawlessly beautiful, but from what I'd seen her do (i.e., turning a metal ladle into a pretzel and chucking it out of the window, undoubtedly at Jiraiya's forehead), she was pretty damn strong.

I loved the man with all my heart, but I couldn't say that watching him being pelted by various potted plants and cutlery wasn't amusing.

Because it was.

"A-ah, Tsunade-hime," Jiraiya chuckled, ruffling my hair again, to my protest, before standing up. He was _tall._ So tall that the pillow I attempted to throw at him harmlessly thumped against his knee. "Nothing at all. I was just showing her how to be more humorous. You know, you ought to read her this book I wrote, it's really funny and might—"

"Jiraiya," my mother stopped him mid-sentence. "Anything you write deserves to be dumped in the nearest trashcan. It's toxic."

He huffed, making a comical face. I snickered behind his back, the ill event of hair-ruffling forgotten.

"You just don't appreciate modern literature," he pouted. "None of you do, except for Sarutobi-sensei."

My mother just rolled her eyes, striding into the room and picking me up.

"Come on, dinner's ready."

"Gee, do I look that cheap to you? Do I look like I'll be swayed by food after being insulted by you, Tsunade?"

"Yes."

He deflated, sighing.

"A little won't hurt, I guess…"

Jiraiya followed us to the kitchen like a lost puppy.

"Theep, theep," I snorted into my mother's shoulders.

"Indeed, Chou-chan."

* * *

**NOTES:** Wow, thank you for the instant responses, guys! I loved it. And yes, this is a Minato/OC story. It'll be a while before he appears, because I don't want to rush this. Chapter size is slowly increasing as I gather more beef to put in. I can't stand stretching things to inhumane degrees just to make the word count pop.

So, just like last time, please review and tell me what you think. What was I lacking here and what did I do a decent job at? Constructive criticism is loved by all.


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